


Three Years Without You

by StrandsofNehn



Series: you were the moon [1]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Book of Shartan, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Poetry, about dragons, hawke gets honest, hawke plays babysitter, hawke writes apparently, i love how anders manifesto came up as a character and not an additional tag, lock picking lessons, reading lessons, shocking., sorta - Freeform, that morning must have been hard., those three years without him sucked
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-05
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-04-30 03:03:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5147903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrandsofNehn/pseuds/StrandsofNehn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles from the three years Hawke and Fenris spent in limbo. It was hard for both of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Don't Drink and Write.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marian got a bit drunk an probably cried a lot.

Marian can’t remember when she last wrote something that wasn’t somehow business related.

Actually, she's almost positive the last time she put ink to parchment was when she sent that threat to Lord-what's-his-name to stop harassing her mother in the markets or else. 

She forgets what the threat was exactly.

Something involving fire, more than likely.

Well, that is the last sober thing she wrote. It is quite evident by the smudged, tear stained piece of paper sitting crumpled on her desk- next to a _very_  empty bottle of _very_  expensive wine that it was not the last thing she managed.

She made the mistake of reading it earlier, curiosity overcoming her headache. Varric would be proud. Actually, no, he wouldn’t. He would worry and buy her a pint after a witty comment of a sort. She doesn't want to imagine what the others would do if they ever saw it. Probably- no. She does not wish to consider it.

Marian doesn’t think she has ever been so honest with herself as she was within the lines of that Maker-forsaken piece of parchment.

And she can't remember writing it.

She traces the wood of her desk around the paper. It was probably written in the midst of getting drunk, she's not that articulate after a few pints. Maker save her. What is she to do? There is a part of her, she isn’t sure what part, that wants to go a few rounds with Isabela to get her mind off it, Maker knows she’d be up for it. Or, well… Would she? Okay, so, maybe she just needs a drink. And maybe a patrol with Aveline. She's good with things like this.

Andraste's _tits_ , her head hurts.

Three years of emotion to come to a head and then to be so utterly rejected after a flicker of true hope in a matter of hours is too much. And what's worse, she believed him when he said he was sorry, when he said it wasn't her fault. She believes him still. To have a lifetime you have no recollecting of blindside you like that, after the day he had before… she almost feels like she got off easy in comparison. _Almost._  Her gaze flits back to the damn parchment.

Almost.

In a fit of rage she snatches it off the desk. Her hearts beating wild and fast- but that's nothing new, is it?- and her head is pounding. Moving so fast it's making her dizzy but she can't help it. 

Stop it. 

It's not  _fair._

“AHHH!!!!”

She crushes it up into her fist and launches the resulting ball at the far wall.

“Will **nothing** ever go right?!”

Next she’s stumbling and then she’s fallen over, tripped on her own feet and in a heap on the floor. Her chest hurts. Her heart is aching. There is so much that isn't fair. She doesn't expect it to be. Not really. She's long been disillusioned about life. Loss is not a new acquaintance. Misery is an old friend. 

She expected this, didn't she?

Her insides clenched and an unbidden whisper comes. 

_Then why does it hurt this much?_

She finds the parchment after a minute of telling herself she’s not crying.

_“Asymmetric”_

_Oh how I long for_  
_You to trace patterns into_  
_My skin and hold me._

 _Breath entwined with breath_  
_The intimate innocence_  
_Of you beside me_

 _Untouched but wanting_  
_Fingers lifting, hands shaking_  
_Naive touch to feel_

 _The lines that make_  
_Me a woman, flaws that_  
_Make me a person_

 _Slow and soft, gentle_  
_Not lust but love, a caress_  
_Meant for my shy heart_

 _Charting vertebra_  
_Fingers on flesh, hands to cloth_  
_A wish granted me_

 _Have a sinner's heart_  
_From me and make symmetry_  
_By releasing yours._

Stupid...

Stupid girl.

Stop crying. 

It won’t stop though, her face is wet, the parchment dips from the waters impact.

Where is her other bottle of rum? Isabela promised it would put her on her ass... Not that she isn’t already. She keeps remembering the feel of his skin against hers. The way the lyrium in his hands felt tracing her back.

A lifetime of memories may haunt him but she would never be free from that night. Maybe she is being unfair. Maybe none of it matters.

She feels her heart lurch.

Hawke is capable of convincing herself of many things: that her sister’s death isn’t her fault, that Carver can forgive her one day, that her mother... that her mother can forgive her for taking both of them from her, that Kirkwall can be better. Will be better.

She does not think she can manage to convince herself the night with Fenris- that _Fenris-_  is a mistake, better to be forgotten.

What, is she more upset that she has caused him pain? More upset that she has upset him than at having her heart ripped out? Maker. She knew what she was getting into. Ripping out hearts is his trademark.

She expected this.

So... so today, today was nursing broken hearts with all the selfish indulgences she could stand, complete with pity parties. Tomorrow... tomorrow she will get a pint, lose badly at Wicked Grace, smile and act like everything is fine. And it will be.

Eventually. 


	2. Book of Shartan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris receives a gift, and he's not sure what to do with it. 
> 
> Fenris POV, short, let me know what you think- I'm still trying to figure out how to write him.

  
The book still surprises him. The weight of it is unfamiliar in his hands as he turns it over and over again. The leather of the binding is so different than that of armor.

A gift, Hawke had said, as if he should be accustomed to such things.

The first she gave him made more sense. A better sword, an upgrade for his armor, both were beneficial. Practical. An advantage for her as she runs head first into every danger relying only on her wits. And him. It only made sense to have a bastion beside her, bedecked in fine armor, wielding a fine blade to cut down her enemies. 

But, a book is different. Knowledge like this is strictly beneficial to him, once he learns to read. Which he would. 

And she'd offered to teach him.

It would surely be an exhausting ordeal, but the offer proved all the more that this is a gift without expectations. A part of him wonders idly if Hawke will choose to solicit favors of some fashion in repayment, and immediately regrets it. Hawke would never employ such underhanded tactics.  

He sets the book down again, on the desk this time. It creaks.

Unless Hawke has decided to have him answer her various correspondence for her, she truly has no alternative motives. Fenris is sure she will not, and not mostly because he is certain she will never read them.

He doubts it is a wise idea. Her teaching him. He has been a fool and hurt her, yet she stays with him. Hawke has not tossed him aside, supports him instead.

He asked her about it, once. Why she kept him around, the reasons behind his question unspoken and understood.

She had frowned at him. Said, _"You don't throw away friends."_

It's more than he deserves. " _Friend_ " seems too greedy a term to call her. But he accepted the answer. There's really no arguing with her when she's like that.

But, this arrangement, the lessons, it seems more intimate than even friendship. Maybe more so than that night of residual anger, old ghosts and need. This is... more than that. Different somehow and he can't quite explain to himself why.

Certainly, it has to do with the way her eyes gleam with that something when he catches her looking at him for too long, but he... he didn't know what that something was. Until he did. And now he does. 

The something felt new but familiar. A flicker of feeling, like a memory, warm and inviting like fire in a hearth. As if he had always known it was there and only just saw it for the first time. It is not a bad something, innately. The something is soothing and calm, but even so, it sends a riverstone to his stomach with each sighting.

When the blasted bloodmage accused him of looking at Hawke with 'puppy eyes' --which he, most assuredly, does not have-- he realized what the something was. Is.

Hawke almost snapped her own neck at the speed she turned to him, to Merril, to him and then quickly front. So quickly the bloodmage didn't catch it, but Fenris did. Thinking of it, his heart gives in a way that's become all too familiar, an echo of that day. In her eyes he finally recognized that something he was too afraid to name.

Hope.

Hawke, despite everything, hopes for him. For them. It nearly breaks his heart.

But, he knows as a prideful being, Hawke is as well and he did his best to argue with the bloodmage, not letting on that he's seen and understood that something. Still hasn't. Hawke has enough problems. He adds onto them far too much already.

It made him wonder if it would be best to move on, to leave. It would be easier on them both, he reasons, but cannot manage to convince himself.

He decided, like he did four years ago, that it is safer with Hawke (safe being a relative term) when Danarius comes looking for him. Fenris would, for the first time since the Fog Warriors, not be facing him alone. And when that time came, he would not forsake Hawke like he did them. Will not. It will end in Danarius' death or his own. He will not accept otherwise. And Hawke, Hawke he knows would disagree adamantly if he told her.

The crease between her brows would appear, her blue eyes would sharpen to piercing and there would be the wild gestures she makes when she truly cares about something, cares enough to abandon her cool, calm and " _snarky_ " demeanor. When she betrays her heart, sets it so exposed it's as if he pulled it from her chest to see. 

He lives for those moments.

He hates those moments. 

For her, Danarius' death is the only solution, even if it had not always been. Before she touched on moving on from it but after Hadriana, her outlook had changed. He could see it in the clench of her jaw and the fire in her eyes.

_"What does magic touch that it doesn't spoil?"_

He meant himself. Only far after he realized it could be misconstrued, when he thought of how she had flinched from him. He hates himself for how she flinched from him. There is no apology adequate for it but he will have to try just the same.

His gaze trails back to where the book rests on his dusty, off-balance desk. Though he cannot read it yet, he knows that " _Book of Shartan_ " is etched onto the leather, staring back at him.

Perhaps, it would be wise to start with " _thank you_."

Thank her for that something that she has for him. Even as it kills him to know it's there. That hope that hurts to hope for. The one that lightens her eyes and darkens beneath them. For that half smile and wink. For the book. For the reading lessons. For her time and energy.

He swears lowly. 

She deserves better.


	3. Varric's the Cool Uncle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay this is not very good. But I always seem to have 15 better ideas after I post on here sooooo yeah. A tid bit of Hawke babysitting the imbeciles. I want to develop how she deals with conflict more.

Hawke is sure she can hear her teeth cracking. From the way she's clenching her jaw, it's only to be expected, but she can't seem to stop herself. Anders and Fenris are both with her and while she does (mostly) see their arguments a source of entertainment, today it's just too much. She's not sure if it's because she's still... if it's just a bad day for her Fenris-wise or if she's still reeling from seeing Anders-- _Justice_ almost kill that girl. She _is_  sure that whatever the reason, she wants to set them both on fire.

A hot, painful fire, not just one that would singe their equally manicured locks. She breathes out her nose and Varric gives her a warning look. Even he has stopped trying to get them to shut up. (He tried several stories, possible bets, jokes and witty comebacks but nothing worked.) Hawke about had enough.

"-I don't know why Hawke puts up with you, really."

Hawke stops.

"I am not in danger of killing her in a glowing rage."

Only Varric notices. He moves a bit to the side.

"You haven't even begged forgiveness at her feet, she deserves better than a magisters pet-"

"Alright, that is it." They don't hear her.

She turns to see them now facing off, neither glowing yet but loud and red faced. It makes her blood boil.

"That's enough."

No change.

"I said **enough**!"

They stop.

"I'm pissed at both of you. You've both been absolute assholes and I am done babying you today. So, shut up. Don't--" She raises a hand to cut them off. "This is a goddamn family road trip and you little shits went from fun family friends to the kids who won't stop screaming. Shut it. And keep it shut until we get back to Kirkwall. And don't, fucking _don't_ talk about my personal life like I'm not even here. Or else I won't be coming into clinic later, and I'll have Aveline reroute a patrol by the mansion."

Empty threats they all know, but despite looking severely pissed off at being called children, they don't speak.

"Good."

She nods once and turns back to the path.

"And one more thing!"

She whirled back to face them, finger out pointedly.

"I gladly put up with both of you. But you're both still assholes and sometimes I really want to set fire to your stupidly pretty hair-- I mean could you share the love? Even Varric--" She dramatically gestures to the smug looking dwarf, "Varric your chest hair is the most sexy thing of my life and next time Bela gets to cope a feel I expect the same- first! And I- I... I had a point here."

"Glad to put up with them. Assholes. Fire. Hair."

Hawke nods along to Varrics words, "Right, right. Like I said. You're both assholes, but I'm glad to be able to call you jerks friends. Your pretty hair helps." She takes a deep breath. What's her point? "You may talk to me and Varric, groveling is also acceptable, but don't talk to each other. Okay? Okay."

Varric lifts an eyebrow at them and turns on his heel after her as she stalks down the path.

Fenris doesn't look away from her. "Have you ever wondered if Hawke has always been this... unique?"

Anders snorts. "No, I haven't."

"No talking!"

Anders rolls his eyes and starts after the lunatic woman and Fenris follows shortly, a small smile on his lips.

"So, Hawke, if they're the screaming kids and you the babysitter, does that make me the stressed out parent?"

"Oh, no, with that chest hair? Stressed parents aren't that sexy. You're the cool uncle. Gamlen could learn from you."

She smiles at the matching snorts behind her.


	4. Hawke's Endeavor to be a Sneak-Thief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke has a habit of following her whims, however silly. A typical crime-fighting/crime-committing offday afternoon.

It’s not the strangest thing she’s done, but she still looks a bit... odd. Lip between her teeth, lockpicks in her hands and complete attention on the chest in front of her, legs splayed on either side with _ahem_ , impressive flexibility.

"Hawke?"

“You know I’ve never actually been able to open this? When we first came here-- the night we met--" Hawke brushes stray hair from her eyes to look at him, "I somehow didn’t bring Varric. So I just left it alone, irritatingly enough and then, regrettably, forgot about it."

"Until now it seems."

"Right! Until now. Except, I still don’t have Varric or any skill what so ever with a lockpick but," she shrugs and goes back to the chest. "I have to start somewhere. And other people don’t like it when you try to unlock all their things. They like it even less when they catch you because you’ve been trying for the last five minutes."

He laughs, "Only five?"

"I never said it wouldn’t take at least five more."

He laughs and she sends him a smile over her shoulder, "I... I have finished the last passage."

Her face brightens but retains focus, "Did you? How was it?"

"It was... slow going." Hatefully slow, but ultimately a victory.

"Well, yes, but I meant more what you thought of it."

"It was..." He struggles to find the right word, "Interesting."

She snorts and straightens, hands pushing on either side of her spine, "I’m sorry you thought so little of it, I tried to find something you could manage on your own but it seems that most of my books have been misplaced. So, now my library consists of Mother’s books, how-to-be-a-well-mannered-unassuming-noblewoman types and additions from our friends. Namely Isabela and Varric’s ‘friend fiction’ and bits of Anders’ manifesto."

"Their ‘friend fiction’ made it to paper? That bodes poorly."

She nods, “Especially if it’s made it to my library. Do you think they just stash things in my house for fun or do they stash things in everyone’s houses?”

“I have not found anything in my own.”

“You also have never cleaned this place after our merry day of body-stashing.” He remembers the day, all their motley crew came to his borrowed mansion and disposed of all the bodies at Hawke’s insistence. “I guess that’s my word for the day, ‘stashing.’ Apt since I’m trying to open this Maker-blasted thing.”

He tries not to laugh as she continues muttering to herself, seeming to forgotten him.

It’s harder when he hears a clear ‘clink’ of a lockpick breaking. “Hawke..?”

“Oh Andraste’s bloody tits-- that, that was my last one! For all the Orleasian wine in the world-“

“Hawke.”

“Blood thing!” She hurls the remaining piece of offender at the wall, quite reminding him of when the roles were reversed and it was wine.

_“Hawke.”_

“Hm?”

“Would you care for some help?”

Her face was priceless. “You mean you can pick locks and you’ve just been standing there watching me struggle?”

“I was on the run for years, remember?” He allows himself a broad smile, “How far do you think I could have gone without the ability to surpass a lock?”

She huffs, full and haut. “Then show me, if you’re so skilled.” She scoots away from the chest and crosses her legs in front her, “Go on now.”

He’s already by her side when she gestures to the chest and he crouches next to it, inspecting the lock with a convincing amount of interest.

“Seems you’ve jammed it, traditional methods will not work now.”

“So you can’t-“

Quickly, he phases his hand through the chest, grabs the lock like he would a mans heart and tears it out.

“You can’t, maybe.”

Her mouth is comically open, and she’s staring at the hole large enough to retrieve the spotted scarf, opal and two silvers within.

“Now, that’s just cheating.”

He smiles, and takes mercy on her, “The book,” she turns to look at him, confusion on her face at the change in subject. "It's not that I did not enjoy it, I did-- the parts I could understand. I’ll show you how to pick a lock-“

“-The _proper_ way.”

“-The proper way, if you would take this afternoon to help me with the difficult passages.”

He’s playing with fire, and they both know it. And he knows that they will both end up paying for it, but, the way her eyes twinkle at him, with that crooked smile she’s so famous for, makes him feel it’s worth it.

“All right, Serah Fenris, you have a deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tis short. Lemme know what you think!


	5. A Practice in Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reading with Hawke and Fenris.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's rough, but it's being posted. Let me know if something doesn't make sense- you know, beyond the things that aren't supposed to make sense.

"My hands are cold.”

Hawke looks over at him, sitting on her couch, nose still buried in that Maker forsaken book and tries again.

“Fenris my hands are cold, will you warm them?”

"You're a mage, I think you're well-equipped to help yourself."

"... I'm hungry."

Still nothing. She sighs loudly and leans her head back in the cushions, wiggles her toes in his lap.

“ _Hawke.”_

“Yes?”

He raises an eyebrow, “Tone doesn’t make you innocent, you are aware?” Hawke grunts. “If you don’t want me to read it, you need only say.”

“No, I do. I just, I wasn’t prepared to be there when you read it.” She frowns and it’s adorable really. “I don’t want to witness your reaction.”

The book settles in his lap. "You think I won’t like it.”

“Well,” she bites her lip. “It’s not a literary masterpiece. It's not even as good as Isabella’s friend fiction.”

A mischievous smile tugs his lips, “I wasn’t aware this was of that genre.”

Hawke can feel her face heat, “I- uh- no. I mean it’s not. No- I. Um. Maker. No.” She takes in a calming breath, “I just want you to like it.”

“You weren’t this anxious when I read from your earlier chapters.”

She makes a face at him and pulls her feet back under her as she sits up, "That was before you knew I was writing them for you!”

Fenris seems to pause. His face could even be described as surprised before it evolves into something more hesitant. Hesitant is something that Fenris is not, and Hawke tenses.

“You’ve not shown this to anyone else.”

It’s not phrased like a question, but she knows it is. “No, I haven’t.” Hawke gives him a sly smile and a wink, “I wanted to test it on a more sophisticated palate.”

Fenris snorts, but he knows she’s deflecting. He does it, too.

And so, he humors her. “Sophisticated? I’m not certain a sophisticated volume would have quite so many dragons in it.”

She straightens, outrage clear on her sharp features. “Any  _sophisticated volume_ may kiss my noble arse if it doesn’t contain any dragons!” She scoffs and crosses her arms, “That is how you keep ink in the inkwell. Give the general--  _sophisticated--_ populous dragons and they’ll buy the entire series. Why do you think half of Varric’s stories have dragons? He _understands_ what the people want! And it’s dragons!”

She’s started nodding along to all her ‘points’ with her customary, grand hand movements reserved for when she's bullshiting. Bullshiting badly enough to warrant a distraction. Fenris does his best to remain composed.

Then, with the proper amount of seriousness, he asks, “So, by your definition, sophistication implies a level of draconic involvement?”

Hawke smiles broadly, and with no small degree of drama responds, “Serah Fenris, I believe the only people worth talking to, worth writing for, are those who have some involvement with dragons-- even if it’s just one of Varric’s stories.” Her neck turns a shade or two pinker, “And as someone who has fought and killed several of them. I’d say your palate is pretty sophisticated. As sophistication goes.”

His lips twitch up into a smile and it makes her heart clench.

“As sophistication goes.”

She nods, quite unsure of what to say.  _Andraste_ , she’s a little unsure of what she just _said._

“So… yes.”

“It never ceases to amaze me, Hawke,” Fenris grins, “how you can beguile your way out of murder in the gallows and still not be able to finish a tale, even among friends.”

“Well, I.” She laughs a bit to herself, at how right he is, “Heh. Yes, it probably says something about me, but I’m not sure what. I’m better on paper, I think.”

Fenris doesn’t have to speculate, “I think you are more… elegant on paper. However, paper lacks the velvet of your voice.”

Hawke’s jaw shuts with an audible ‘click’ and starts squirming in her place on the couch. Fenris seems to be in much the same sort of state. And, for a moment, neither say anything while Hawke dodges and casts glances alone as Fenris tries to burn a hole into the floor through sheer willpower. 

“I…”

“No," he shakes his head once, repulsion clearly etched in his furrowed brow, "Hawke. I apologize, that was untoward.”

Hawke wishes she could say something, something positive, something that can undo the tension they’ve had since… well, they’ve always had tension, (the type of tension just shifted over the years.)

But, this tension makes her heart feel a bit too large and feeling for the box she's corralled it into. She opens her mouth and tries a few times to speak but all the right words fail her.

“I’m sorry," she whispers, unable to say anything else.

He’s standing, swift to his feet and collecting his things.

“You shouldn’t be.”

“Fenris, wait.” She hastily crosses in front of him and offers the handwritten volume, “You should hold onto this.” She’s not sure that she’s saying the right things here but he slowly reaches out to take it. “Tell me if you like the way it ends.”

He lifts the small journal from her hands and thinks of the story it tells. A runaway he felt so similar to, journeying across the country, slaying dragons and evil-doers all so he can return home to his friends... his family.

He turns away from her, and starts toward the door, “I’m sure I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It can't all be cute and lovely. They were in limbo for three years! They must of had some bad days.
> 
> Anyways. As always, let me know what you think! Comments and Kudos are my guilty pleasure.  
> -R


	6. When Your 3 Years are Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is it, laddies. The culmination of three years of feelings, major life decisions, loss, and a shit ton of baggage. 
> 
> Or, more delicately:
> 
> The one where they finally make it.
> 
> PS do you know how ridiculous it was to find the Blue Hawke automatic dialogue for this scene? So. Much. YouTube. Surfing.

Hawke has a pretty active imagination, a little too active at times. If Aveline is to be believed, anyways. (Hawke always believes Aveline, just rarely listens to her.) And she has imagined Fenris apologizing a thousand times. A thousand ways. Awake and asleep.

Some ( _most_ ) scenarios hurt more than simply picturing the near-certain reality where it would never be brought up. Where it would remain this unspoken, jagged bond between them that cuts a little deeper every day with its serrated edges into the meat of both their hearts. And that hurts a lot. Quite the feat surpassing it.

Dreams hold the worst of it. Nightmares are the ones where he begs her. Begs for her forgiveness. There is the instinctive, soul-splintering knowledge that Fenris, before her on his knees-- or his hands upraised or head down or-- that he has done this before. The display of pure deference. That the apology is  _practiced_. It makes her sick. Sick at herself for even fathoming it. Sick at the entirety of Tevinter for allowing such evil to fester. Sick at that-- that-- that _monster_. That pile of _putrefaction_. She doesn't have a name depraved and disgusting and evil enough to fling at his corpse. 

She vomited the first time she had that dream. She'd ruined her new rug beside her bed. Had been forced to go back to frigid stone under her feet in the mornings. The times that she wakes with a start and bile in her throat, covered in sweat, she savors the bite of the cold on her skin. She has spent more than one evening naked save for her smalls pressed against the cool of the grey slate in her bedroom, only moving to press her other cheek to the chill after she can bear it no longer.

In other scenarios, the ones she can influence, even marginally, he simply says he never meant to hurt her or that he knows words mean little, but he is sorry for interfering with her life. For causing her complications or distress. Simple. To the point. No excessive words or flowery tone. Sincere. Always sincere because Hawke knows, _knows_ , that Fenris is sorry.

And that is part of the problem.

How much easier it would be to move on from that night three years ago if he were not. If he were callous or dismissive or even indifferent. If he engaged in flirtations with anyone more than with Isabella with her barbs and commentary on underwear colors and moments of "glowy ecstasy."

Oh, if Hawke ever manages to find a spell that could scrub memories from her mind she'd use it in an instant to purge a certain drunken night at the Hanged Man, so she may never have to think of how Isabella's voice slurred and eyes squinted at Fenris.

_"Do your lovers finish seeing stars?”_

And then she'd obliterate the memory of her own treacherous, unthinking mouth scoffing a correction, _“The **moon.”**_

He is too bright to be the stars. Too ever-changing and constant to be anything else but the moon. A guide in the night, a light on your back, a call to something deep within and gone in the dark-- when the stars feel oppressing and cruel, so far away.

It would have been so, so, so much easier if he tried to forget her at all. But he didn't. Hadn't. That look of his she was foolish enough to glance at after realizing just what she said confirmed beyond what words could say that Fenris still… still… he _still_.

And so did she. Maker, so does she.

And it is the most agonizing, beautiful, _useless_ and utterly irretractable thing she's ever felt. The most paradoxical tangle of feelings hidden away in her heart with all her other treasured things. Among her memories, there it is. He is. Memories of her father, whose strength and smirk she's always wielded in his absence. Of her siblings. Of the first time Carver said her name and proceeded to throw food at her-- the ferocity that challenged her and the first burst of sparks Beth ever made, the flurry over the kitchen table and the wonder and terror that filled her brown eyes. They were the moments that Hawke chose to put her own needs last. For years she did. Has. Then there is the haunting memory of her mother's dying words-- words that simultaneously released and condemned her.

Like precious gemstones their memories all clink and brush each other in the pouch of her heart reserved for the things that really… that really matter. There he is, right at home with his stupid tipsy smile and rare rancorous laughter, the feeling of his fingertips tracing her palm-- Her reasons to remain firmly planted in this hell-hole of a city. Reasons to come home and do it all again the next day, gemstones tightly bound and bundled with reverence in the deepest, most secret and treasured place of her heart.

Vital. He'd become vital.

And until this moment, sitting in Fenris’ crumbling mansion watching his painfully open face, Hawke always thought she'd never be able to voice that aloud.

But, his voice is sure, and the affection in his eyes is a salve for her throat, burned for three years by unsaid words.

“If I could go back I would stay. Tell you how I felt.”

“What would you have said?” she rasps.

“Nothing could be worse than the thought of living without you.”

The words are beautiful. Elegant and precise. No flowers or great gestures, not a sign of begging, just sincerity. Honesty. Has he ever been anything else? No. No, of course not. Even if it would've been easier, kinder.

For a moment, heart thundering in her chest, eyes, perhaps, misting, Marian Lilah Hawke cannot believe the feeling of freedom lancing through her. Of relief. Doesn't begin to understand why she feels so off balance at it, or the slight panic that comes as she is made to direct all the emotion and freedom of that _thing_ , his gemstone in her chest to go somewhere else now. To be let out. To be seen. To be  _acknowledged._

"I understand," she says and the words ache with sincerity, "I have always understood."

Maker. _Maker_. The worn leather pouch of her heart expands into a jeweled chest within her. Struggling to accommodate the new wealth of feeling. It is full to bursting. The hinges work. It is unlocked. She can’t possibly close it, now. Maker, what does she do? She's never imagined this outcome in the thousands of tries in three long, burdened years.

_Silly bird. Hasn't Fenris always been beyond your imagination?_

“If there is a future to be had, I will walk into it gladly at your side.”

She blinks long and hard. Then with a rough exhale and something hot behind her eyes she shoots to her feet; without hesitation, he meets her. She holds his face, cradles his neck, just as he does hers. She presses her lips to his, just as he does. She kisses him with everything spilling out of her too-tight chest.

Just as he does.

It is soft, it is reverent, it is impossible and happening and desperate and _happening_.

She pulls away, but remains in his arms. She will be loathed to leave them ever again. The first time was hard enough.

“You're sure,” she whispers and it is as much a question as it is not.

He gently kisses her forehead. His hands still hold her face but loosely now, so she can dip her head and squeeze her eyes closed. So she can try to assuage the tears and fist her hands in his tunic best she can.

“You are, and have always been, my only surety.”

He starts to trail down her spine, touch soft and reassuring, then up again. Their hold on each other slides from passion to comfort. Marian rests her head in the side of his neck and he burrows into her hair. Her arms lock around his waist, under his arms that come to rest at the small of her back, the soft touch never faltering.

She’s never seen them as a soft pair. Or gentle. Or anything that is happening right now and she feels ashamed of herself for it. Of course, this is what it would be like. Of course.

Fenris presses another kiss to her head, just above her ear and sighs. It's a sigh that has his whole body relaxing and Marian cannot hold back her answering one. Cannot help but relish in how he presses her closer to him as her body sags. She lets out a breath, a laugh and the relief is undeniable and pleasantly heavy in the room, like a blanket.

It means something. _This_ means something.

“Stay,” he says. “Stay tonight. No expectations.”

“I'll stay," she swears and it's for more than just a night, "if you will.”

“Nothing is going to keep me from you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always wanted to write this. When I started this I planned to finish with this. It only took me, what? A year? I'll have to check. But I fricken did it. And I think it has the same ouch factor as the rest of this bullshit. But MAKER they brought it on themselves!! And now wow. I love them. I mean omg. 
> 
>  
> 
> Anyways. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed this! I mean people even subscribed to this!! (You masochists) I hope that you all cried and laughed reading it like I did writing it. It's done! Finite! Feels good. I always disliked leaving it where it was. 
> 
> Kudos, comments, keyboard smashes and insults are all valued and appreciated. 
> 
> Love you guys, sorry for calling you masochists. 
> 
> -R
> 
> PS! I wrote a fluffy smut piece to accompany this, found [Here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11388981) . I'll probably add to it like I did to this, make it a series. So stay tuned.


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